Disclaimer: This wasn’t actually meant as a real story, just some background about a post-apoc city and the organisations therein. The text hasn’t really been edited yet, so feel free to correct any mistakes in it. The writing was mostly inspired by two songs: “Nick Cave – Red Right Hand” and “The Who – Behind Blue Eyes”. I’d advice you to listen to them as they come up (if you even get that far, which I doubt).
Anyhow, anyone masochistic enough to read this: enjoy…
As I climbed the porch, the weather-beaten wooden steps sighed under my weight. The farmhouse was the spitting image of every other farmhouse in these godforsaken badlands, nothing more than a ramshackle wooden shack. A puff of the big bad wolf's breath would’ve been able to sweep it away, and in a sense, that was what I was about to do. I paused at the front door and lit a cigarette. I inhaled the smoke and let warm wind roll over me for a moment. The calm before the storm... One of my enforcers stood silently behind me, he knew the ritual and wasn't about to disrupt it. The enforcer silently checked his submachine gun and made certain he had extra clips within reach if the shit were to hit the fan. I dropped my half finished cigarette and crushed it with my boot. It made me wonder how many things I had crushed with my boot over the 21 years I had worked for the Syndicate. Too much, undoubtedly.
I gave the enforcer the go-ahead. He kicked the door with his boot, the wood around the hinges shattered and the door went down. Ironically, he hadn't even checked if the door was locked or not. It probably wasn't, but that all mattered so little now as the proprietor would soon no longer care. As the door kicked up dust, I saw the farmer dart by, running for the back door. Fear had given him wings, as he raced to escape. But opening the door revealed only pain, instead of freedom and safety. Another of my enforcers had patiently waited there and greeted the fleeing farmer with the butt of his shotgun. Teeth flew across the room, the poor man was knocked back into the wall & sacked down against it like a sack of potatoes.
"You ought to know better than that, Mr Ramirez." I said and affirmed, "There is no escaping the Syndicate."
The man mumbled an answer, but I couldn't make it out. Either the man had trouble speaking with his damaged mouth, or he had understood that nothing he could say would change anything and simply wanted to lament the situation instead. He squirmed a little, so I put my dusty black boot on his chest and pushed down, pinning him to the wooden floorboards.
"We are tired of your excuses, Mr Ramirez, and I do believe you have received ample warning." I said, as I watched his malformed hands. Both hands had had their pinkies amputated. My doing. I'm told others often resort to breaking bones, as a warning. However, I do not see the use. A farmer can't farm with a broken leg or arm. Since I wanted him to be able to work, I amputated pinkies. They were superfluous anyway. If cauterized properly, the person wouldn't experience too much of a discomfort in future work, but would forever be reminded of his unpaid debt.
"We have reached the end, Mr Ramirez, and you know what that means." I spoke.
The man started to mumble again. I think he was praying now. That was good, he would need to make peace with his maker. I waited for a moment and then stretched out my hand towards the enforcer standing at my shoulder. Without a single word he unholstered his .357 revolver and handed it to me.
"May you find a peace in death, that you couldn't find in life." I said as the hammer struck the bullet.
I then turned to the bed where the other enforcer had sat down two other persons, the farmer's two sons. The eldest was eighteen. He was a huge muscular man, but his face easily betrayed that has was retarded. If my information was correct, he should be about as smart as a nine year old. His younger brother was fourteen. He had been forced to grow up fast. He was a nimble & streetwise kid. There was hope for him yet, even if he was now pretty much alone. His mother had died giving birth to a daughter. The daughter in turn died of the flu at the age of eight.
As I approached the bed, the youngest kid darted to the corner of the room, reaching for a makeshift spring gun. It was the poor man's self-defence weapon. A tube, a grip, a high tension spring & a projectile. Simple, but deadly. The finely crafted ones could shoot a railroad spike all the way into a man's chest at 25 yards distance. Of course, even though the kid was agile and quick, he never reached the gun. He was met halfway by the boot of one of my enforcers, striking him square in the chest. It knocked the wind out of him and he landed back on the bed. His brother let out a whimper. I handed the revolver back to it's owner, grabbed a chair and sat down on it in front of to the bed.
"I'm sorry about your father, I truly am." I spoke once the younger boy had recovered and I actually meant it for once, "You now have a choice: Either you inherit the farm and your father's debts under the same conditions, or you give up the farm, the crops and the animals. In that case I’ll in turn forfeit the debts and I'll try to find you a job in the city. The choice is yours."
"You know as well as I do, that we stand no chance of ever paying those debts without loosing fingers and eventually our lives." The youngest boy answered with the undeniable tremble of anger in his voice.
"That is probably correct, but I am required to give you the chance, and the choice remains yours. You have one day to decide." I replied, "If you decide to keep the farm, come see me at the viaduct. If you decide against it, leave the farm. If you're in need of work, you can go see the foreman in the Ghetto. I'll tell him to give you a job and shelter for the time being. It is hard work and it doesn't pay well, but at least you and your brother will have a full stomach."
As I was about to leave, I grabbed a piece of cloth off the sink, probably something they used as a towel and wiped the farmer's blood of my right boot.
"I probably don't have to warn you not to steal anything. Crops, animals, tools. All need to be accounted for, or the Syndicate will hunt you down. You are, of course, free to take any personal effects." I said and stepped back into the burning sun.
It was now almost noon as we headed back to the city through the dusty and desolate wastes. After 30 minutes hard travel in the searing sun we reached the city. The city was on the fringe of civilisation as we liked to call it. It was the last real city before the radioactive dustbowl that was the Mid-West. An area plagued with radioactive tornadoes, horribly mutated raiders, cannibal tribes and odd beasts.
We entered through the Scav's gate, also known as the West Gate, one of the only two entrances to the city. The other side was the East Gate, the 'official' militia entrance near the Ghetto. Around the city there were fortifications made of dirt mounts, junk, pointy sticks, razor-sharp metal plates and booby traps. Mostly to keep raiders out, but also to keep us safe from other cities' militias. You never knew who might get it in his head to try and conquer some territory.
The Scavengers greeted us warmly. They were one of the few that didn't fear us. This might be because none of them were ever stupid enough to ask the Syndicate for loans or to cross us in any way. They mostly kept to themselves, but we often did business with them, trading rare technology, medical supplies, books or weapons they dug up out in the wastes and the many radiation zones at their own peril. They were a rough but honest bunch of scavengers, fortune finders, trappers and hunters hauled up in the old train yards. They had an own code, some sort of law all lived by. They even had a strange form of social security. The longer you stayed with the Scav's, the more they'd go out of their way to help you if you were in some kind of trouble. Old trappers that were lacking the strength and constitution to continue their trade were provided for, as long as they provided a service in return. May it be teaching the youngsters some tricks, crafting traps, skinning, tanning, cooking dinner or all of the above.
We followed the train tracks and the power cables along the west side of the City, until we reached the viaduct. Some sections had fallen a long time ago during the war, but most still stood high above the ground. Under one of the sections that were still standing was my home, an old Civil Defence shelter. I never quite understood why anyone would build such a small shelter in a viaduct, but I must admit there are many things about the old days that I didn't quite understand. The shelter was composed of two rooms. A heavy metal door, more a bulkhead than an actual door, lead to the front room, which was my office and for some part a shop of sorts. The big back room was my bedroom and storeroom. The back room had a secondary exit through a manhole on the viaduct, but I had booby trapped it a long time ago. The entire area around that section of the viaduct was marked with burning barrels with the shape of a hand cut out of them, to make sure no one would make the mistake of wandering in by accident if he had no business there.
Across from the shelter were the enforcer's barracks and a pillbox manned by a guard armed with a squad support weapon around the clock. The enforcers were either ex-militia or reformed raiders. Either way, they were considered the toughest soldiers in town. The barracks were build with a mix of stones, clay and wooden beams to support the roof. I always thought that Max, the chief enforcer, had done a very good job designing it. If someone were to be able to somehow get past the front guard and throw a grenade into the barracks, the grenade would do little damage, as there was another wall separating the entrance from the sleeping quarters. Next to the barracks, there was a group of benches and chairs around a campfire. The viaduct protected it from the sun for most of the day and even kept the acid rain at bay. Only sandstorms could wreck havoc on occasion. Each of the twelve enforcers could often be found lounging there, whenever not on duty. It was that or hitting the bars & brothels, which believe it of not eventually grew pretty old.
As we stepped into the shade of the viaduct, Max met us to tell us Mom's delivery boy had just brought us the dinner she had cooked for us, as she did each day. He asked me if he should bring my share to the office, but I told him I would eat outside with the enforcers. There was little wind today, so not too much sand and dirt would be blown into the food around the campfire. Most enforcers drank some vile soda pop called Nuka Cola, as I drank water. Nuka Cola was a disgusting chemical drink I had never grown to appreciate. Imagine some gasoline mixed with bubbling water and ground coffee beans. The enforcers that were off duty drank beer or liquor, courtesy of the Syndicate.
When we were done, I told Max to send word to the foreman to expect two new workers and to send someone to Ramirez's farm to maintain it for the time being. I also told him I was going to take a nap until someone showed up with business and that he was expected to wake me up when that happened.
A heavy knock on the metal door woke me up.
"The Butcher is here to see you, Mr Black." Max's voice said through the thick door. I opened it and let the leader of the Bowery gang in. As usual, he was wearing his 'uniform': bright red shirt, black trousers, black leather boots with a small manly heel and a black vest. His oil-slicked hair shone in the sun, as did the butcher knife hanging from his belt. He was one of the few thugs that had lived long enough to see his hair starting to turn grey, even though he was only 5 years older than I was.
"What can I do for you today, Bill?" I asked as I sat down in my comfortable chair and waved him to do the same on one of the chairs in front of my desk.
"Guns, lotsa guns. Preferably assault rifles and machine guns." He answered with a disgusting grin on his face.
"And why would you need that, my friend?" I asked.
"The spicks! They're encroaching on our territory, and they have superior numbers... Thank god, they aren't well armed." He replied.
"Well, you know the score. I can only sell revolvers, automatic pistols, shotguns, 'civilian' TEK-9's and grenades to gangs. Only city militias are allowed to buy AR's and other big guns." I answered coldly.
"Can't you at least cut us a deal on militia TEK-9's?" He asked.
"I can sell you the militia 30-round clips, instead of the civilian 20-round ones, but I will not supply you with the militia TEK-9's that have full automatic fire. Besides, your men are probably better off with the 3-round burst civi model anyway. They'd simply spray the militia ones empty on the first guy they see, leaving them reloading while they get swarmed by the bloody spicks..." I pleaded.
The TEK-9 was one of the many Syndicate success stories. It was a small 9mm submachine gun. Simple, rugged and effective. It's design was stolen from a cheapass gun from way before the bombs fell, but the Syndicate had brought it back and redesigned it. The original defects were worked out, such as often misaligned sights and the gun was mass produced in two versions. Due to the materials used to craft it, it was heavier than the original since we lacked composites, but that helped to keep the recoil a little more controllable. It was a cheap gun suited both for civilian self-defence and militia forces. Of course, if the people knew it's actual production cost, they'd shit a brick. We were selling them for 5 times their cost.
It is also rather funny that an organisation that was into loan sharking, arms manufacturing, gunrunning, liquor production and various other trades, would have strict rules regarding the sale of guns. But the reason was pretty obvious. The Syndicate was everywhere. No matter what faction a city belonged to, the Syndicate was there. No matter who ruled a city, the Syndicate had him in their pocket. The Syndicate was an octopus, with tentacles in each power structure. The Syndicate had even gone as far as to print it's own money, from an old Dollar press with changed print. This money was accepted everywhere and even often preferred over official city or region currency. And as such, the Syndicate needed stability, just as much as the people that ran the city. Stability means prospering, prospering means money. They can't allow some nitwit gang to buy big guns and overthrow the power structure. On the other hand, the Syndicate did encourage gangs to fight each other, since those small scale wars are good for business.
"If you aren't happy with our selection, you can always try the gun shop in the Ghetto. Either way, I'll have a new case of civi models in by the end of the week. That's 20 guns in 3 days. And I'll throw in one militia model for your personal use, if you keep it between us, Bill." I added, knowing full well that the gun shop in the Ghetto wouldn't sell them anything but pistols, shotguns and semi-automatic hunting rifles.
"Alright, we'll talk again by the end of the week." he answered.
As I saw the man known as The Butcher our, I noticed a farmer sitting outside on the bench next to my front door.
I nodded at Max who was tinkering with the sights on his assault rifle and he told me the farmer had been there for hours, way before The Butcher had arrived, but the farmer didn't want Max to wake me up. I sighed and told the farmer to come in. The farmer took off his hat and looked around my office, as if he was looking at a cave full of treasure. Various open green wood gun crates, with guns on display. A big leather armchair. An oak desk. A liquor cabinet with all the finest liquors to be found in the wastes. Behind me, even a working radio set and computer. Or at least, it would work if I fired up the alcohol fuelled generator in the back. The farmer's awe was understandable, the contents of one of my cigar cases was probably worth more than his entire livestock, including his wife and children.
"Speak." I said impatiently.
"Mr Black, I - I - I'm Jones from the farm out to the south-west and I'm here to request a loan." He replied.
"You are aware of our rates & the penalties for not paying what's due? Mr Ramirez had to find out the hard way today." I asked. The way he was clenching his hat in his hands, made me wonder if I were to pity him or hate him for being a spineless bastard. "Ye - Yes, sir. But I need it to buy a new bull. My current one is a magnificent bull, sir, but he seems to be sterile. I cannot breed any more without a new bull and buying a new bull without a loan would cost me all my brahmin...I can't even hire one from a fellow farmer without significant losses." He sighed.
"Alright." I said as I reached in a drawer of my desk, took out a bundle of money and started peeling off a few bills. As I looked up again, I thought his eyes were going to pop. The poor man had probably never seen so much money in his entire life.
"Off you go." I said as I put the bundle back & wrote down the transaction in the ledger while the man beat a hasty retreat, thanking me until I was out of sight and even thanking Max as he crossed him.
I grabbed my black leather trench coat, turned off the alcohol fuelled lamp on my desk and locked up the shelter behind me. Max nodded as I left to head into town alone. I needed no protection in the city. No one was stupid enough to try to rob or even kill a representative of the Syndicate here, let alone a Regent. A simple glimpse of the red tattoo of a hand on the back of my right hand would be enough to scare the living daylights out of most people. The mere thought of a dead Regent in their neighbourhood was enough to make an entire city block of people dislocate. The Syndicate knew no mercy and no peace when hunting down people who had offended them, stolen from them, or killed on of them. The guilty party would be found, even if they had to burn down the whole world in the process.
The sun was already setting as I stepped into the slums. I crossed a group of children who were using a dog to hunt a rather big and mean looking rat across the streets. When the rat had gained sufficient distance between the pursuing boys, he stopped in his tracks, turned around and in a flash bit the dog in the throat. By the time the boys caught up, the dog was bleeding to death and the rat was long gone. I couldn't help, but laugh. Across the road sat a girl with dirt all over her face. She eyed me as she was nursing a baby on her street corner. She couldn't have been more than 14 years old. I turned into an alley, a shortcut. There were two persons lying on the ground. As I passed, one of them grabbed my coat and begged for some money. I instinctively kicked him, he recoiled and his bottle shattered on the pavement. The drunk started to lament the loss of his booze, while the other person -or was it a thing?- begged to forgive her husband, he hadn't recognised me she said. I left them lying in their own dirt and continued on my way.
I soon crossed over into the Bowery, an area held by the Bowery Boys for decades now. Their stronghold was a building called Bowery Savings Bank. Of course, it no longer fulfilled that purpose. Someone who must've read the famous book, had used the name of the bank to adopt an old New York gang's name. Since then, all gang leaders that had headed the gang were renamed Bill The Butcher the moment they came into power. The name wasn't just the name of the old New York gang's boss, it was also a hint at how he came to power. Any member of the gang had the right to challenge the leader into a melee fight with huge butcher knives. The victor was named gang leader. They were a very violent gang, but mostly harmless as long as they had an enemy to focus on. The spicks were that enemy. Other than fighting, doing violent odd-jobs and brewing awful moonshine, they didn't do much except trying to look cool in their uniforms.
At the border between the Bowery and the Barrio, was the biggest brothel in town, run by a fat black lady named Madam Lil'. She catered to both side, but didn't allow any tomfoolery inside her brothel. Anyone starting a fight, would be not only banned for life, but also extremely lucky to get out alive.
East of the brothel stretched the Barrio, which was spick country. The spicks weren't all that bad. They mostly wanted to make a living and survive. They far outnumbered the Bowery Boys, but were far less interested in gang wars. They were relatively calm until the Bowery Boys pushed them a little too hard and then they would have no choice but to push back. Many tried to make an honest living with doing the dirty work for the people in the Ghetto. Some did some caravan protection work. Others were forced into criminality or prostitution.
Just a little further lay the Ghetto. The Ghetto was the inner-city. It had a reinforced wall made of concrete, wood and metal plates to protect it. The walls were guarded by a few militia. The inner-gate was a passage about a lane and a half wide and about 35 yards long. At the end of it was a heap of sandbags with a .50 cal machine gun behind it. Anyone trying to storm the Ghetto would have to go through that bottleneck and face the judgement of the .50 cal.
Most of the structures within the Ghetto were apartment buildings of which the top floors had crumbled and collapsed. Many had no more than two or three intact and safe floors, while many others had collapsed completely. Just to the left of the entrance lay Ol' Man Carter's convenience store with next to it Doc Painless' practise and drugstore. To the right of the entrance was a small hotel, that mostly provided a place to stay for caravans and the odd traveller that did have some cash to his name. Attached to the hotel was a bathhouse, which was where I was headed now. While prostitution wasn't allowed in the Ghetto, the girls at the bathhouse did offer services going well beyond washing up and a massage. The law condoned it for some reason. However, that was not what I was there for, I simply needed a cleanup. Maybe not only from the dirt, but from the blood that stuck to me. However, that would never wash off...
Refreshed from my bath, I continued down the road to the repair shop, which was run by two women. Samantha, the resident techhead, that often fixed broken technology that the Scav's brought back to me and Laura, the mechanic, that was currently working on a alcohol fuelled dirt bike for me. The girls were the stuff wet dreams were made off. No finer body had ever filled a workers overall than Laura's and Samantha was a particularly cute looking redhead. Of course, no man in town had ever conquered that territory, except one. The girls were lesbians, which only added to the attraction I presume. It was always funny to see the older men of the city linger a bit outside the workshop, in the hope of catching a glimpse of either one. Or even a glimpse of seeing them kiss! However, they wanted a child, for which they needed a man, at least for a very short period of time. The man they chose had turned the entire town upside down. They had chosen the Doc's help. He wasn't a good looking man, nor a strong one. He was a thin young man with glasses. However, he was pretty damn smart and in many ways more skilful than the Doc himself. The young man had often been teased and bullied by the other locals, but that soon came to an end after the word was out on the baby boy he had conceived with the lesbian couple...
Laura greeted me as I entered the workshop and updated me on her progress. Samantha seemed to be focused on tinkering with a holodisk reader. Laura was then called away by the whaling baby in the corner of the shop. For some reason the baby seemed to instinctively dislike me. Was it the smell of blood money that stuck to me like a fly on brahmin shit? I don't know, but I couldn't entirely blame the baby as most of the time I didn’t like myself much either. I quickly took my leave and crossed the road to enter Mom's Diner, stuck in between the smithy and the gun shop.
The smithy was run by twin brothers. One had become a skilled smith, the other a gunsmith. They were quite good at what they did and completed each other to a scary extend. They went as far as finishing each other’s sentences. The rumour had it, that they switched between their wives on regular occasion.
I entered Mom's Diner and even before I sat down, she was already coming to bring me my meal. When I complemented her once again on a decent meal, she placed a sloppy wet kiss on my forehead and went back to her duties. While she wasn't my mom, she had become the next best thing over the years.
To the back of Mom's Diner was a subway station. The subway network and the sewers were ghoul territory, even right in the middle of the Ghetto, the ghouls only had to answer to their own leader, not the Mayor, not the Sheriff. Ghouls were quite interesting, if you could get yourself to ignore the putrid smell. It was said that some ghouls had been alive since the War. It was true ghouls held huge amounts of old knowledge, but I doubt any had been alive since the War. My hypothesis was that too survive, they had had to adapt and learn to pass knowledge on to each other as efficiently as possible. Even when you asked a ghoul straight out, he'd tell you one thing, while the next ghoul you'd ask would tell you the other. Either way, many ghouls were proficient in old technology and had also proven very efficient in digging up dirt and information. There wasn't much going on in town that the ghouls didn't have the scoop on. Ghouls were overall good people, but had a somewhat paranoid bend.
I slowly continued down the road, past the building where my daughter lives. She had turned sixteen last month and I had given her the apartment as a birthday gift. Not that that meant a lot, she hadn't lived with me since she had turned twelve. She had been raised by Mom more than by me ever since her real mother had died by my own hand. She was six when it happened and had only now, at sixteen started to forgive me. I, however, could still not forgive myself. To kill the women you love and mother of your child in front of that very child is unforgivable. There is no day that goes past where I don't curse her for forcing me to do it. She knew the laws of the Syndicate as well as I did and she had willingly violated them, but there still isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret my choice. It was since then, now over 10 years ago, that I've moved out of the inner-city and lived as a self-imposed exile at 'my' viaduct.
Next to the apartment building was the Mayor's house. In front of it was his car. It was an actual microfusion fuelled car, not one of the slightly more common alcohol powered ones. Of course, as most car owners, he almost never drove it. It simply costed too much, even for the Mayor who owned a share in most stores in the Ghetto and owned the Casino. It is there that I crossed the Sheriff. She was a stern looking woman. As tough as the reinforced leather armour she wore and as deadly as the combat shotgun she carried. I think she disliked me, but I never could be sure as she wasn't very talkative to anyone at all. I was told she had a fling with Max, but I cannot be sure. Even though I considered him one of my closest friends, he never told me anything about it and I never asked. I do have to admit, they aren't such an odd match after all.
It must've been almost midnight by the time I reached the bar. The bar was an old catholic church. It was big, nice and cosy. The organ still worked even though the biggest pipes had been dismantled decades ago to make brass for bullets together with the church bells. Most wooden art had either been sold, or burned together with the original church benches. Most of the beautiful glass windows were intact however, which was pretty much a miracle as far as I was concerned.
The bar was owned by what I guess you could call my girlfriend, Beth, although it was kind of complicated. I really liked her, but it was really nowhere near what I felt for my deceased wife. Beth was 30 years old, which is about 5 years younger than I was and she had everything I looked for in a woman. She was smart, entertaining, and very driven when it came to business, not to mention a good looking brunette. In essence, she didn't 'need' me like most girls in this town, but she wanted me anyway. A nice coincidence was, that my daughter Sarah was on very good terms with her and liked her a lot. She even worked there as a waitress, although if she chose to, she would never have had to work in her entire life.
While her being a waitress didn't sit very well with me, I counted my blessings. At least she didn't booze, do drugs or hang out with trash, which was what most girls of her age seemed to do. Sure, as a sixteen year old waitress she'd come into contact with scum anyway, but Beth didn't take any bullshit in her bar and neither did her bouncers. Not to mention everyone knew she was my daughter, which should have been deterrence enough...
As I climbed the stairs to the heavy oak doors, I noticed bloodstains all over the marble steps. I cursed myself for not noticing that the bouncer wasn't standing at his usual post by the door and quietly snuck towards the entrance. As I slowly opened the door, I reached behind my back to my belt, for my Laser Watts pistol that no one except my enforcers knew I carried. It was mostly clever subterfuge that led people to believe I was unarmed at all times. I also instinctively felt my chest, to make sure I was wearing my kevlar vest under my shirt and coat. As I peaked into the bar however, I saw I was too late for the party. Some tables had been turned over and glass was spread over the floor, but these were but mere relics of a bar fight that had ended some time ago.
I relaxed and let go of my pistol as I saw Sarah and Beth cleaning up the mess. Undoubtedly Beth sent the bouncer home after breaking up the fight and taking some punches. The bar was nearly empty, only the two girls, the band, a barman and a guy that was hanging at the bar. The man had clearly taken a few blows. Just as I was going to step out of the shadow, the band started playing. Rather than disturbing them, I leaned against the wall and listened.
The drums, guitar and the organ set in, the singer lit a cigarette, and then started to sing.
"Take a little walk to the edge of town, go across the tracks.
Where the viaduct looms, like a bird of doom, as it shifts and cracks.
Where secrets lie in the border fires, in the humming wires.
Hey man, you know you're never coming back.
Past the square, past the bridge, past the mills, past the stacks.
On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man,
in a dusty black coat with a Red Right Hand."
"He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy.
He'll rekindle all the dreams, it took you a lifetime to destroy.
He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul.
But there won’t be a single thing that you can do.
He's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru.
They're whispering his name through this disappearing land,
but hidden in his coat is a Red Right Hand."
"You don't have no money? He'll get you some.
You don't have no car? He'll get you one.
You don't have no self-respect, you feel like an insect.
Well don't you worry buddy, cause here he comes.
Through the Ghetto and the Barrio and the Bowery and the slums.
A shadow is cast wherever he stands,
stacks of green paper in his Red Right Hand."
“You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams.
He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems.
You'll see him in your head, on the TV screen.
And hey buddy, I'm warning you to turn it off!
He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru.
You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan,
designed and directed by his Red Right Hand.”
As the song ended and the singer crushed his cigarette, I emerged from the shadow and clapped slowly, but firmly. As soon as they recognised the blonde haired man in dusty black trench coat, black pants & black shirt, their skin whitened and their eyes widened in fear. I could actually see the hair on the back of their necks stand up straight. When I climbed the stage, and reached for a guitar, the band members collectively cringed. I laughed -did they actually believe I'd bash in their skulls with a guitar over a nice song?- and sat down on a pew.
I started playing, cleared my throat and sung.
"No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes."
"No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies."
"But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be."
"I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free."
"No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you!"
"No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through."
"But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be."
"I have hours only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free."
"When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool.
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool."
"And if I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat.
And if I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat."
"No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes."
I stood up and placed the guitar against the pew, as Beth and Sarah applauded. The band joined them, but I couldn’t make out if they were being sincere or not. I grabbed my girlfriend and my daughter, and we walked out into the cool night air laughing like little kids.
Anyhow, anyone masochistic enough to read this: enjoy…
As I climbed the porch, the weather-beaten wooden steps sighed under my weight. The farmhouse was the spitting image of every other farmhouse in these godforsaken badlands, nothing more than a ramshackle wooden shack. A puff of the big bad wolf's breath would’ve been able to sweep it away, and in a sense, that was what I was about to do. I paused at the front door and lit a cigarette. I inhaled the smoke and let warm wind roll over me for a moment. The calm before the storm... One of my enforcers stood silently behind me, he knew the ritual and wasn't about to disrupt it. The enforcer silently checked his submachine gun and made certain he had extra clips within reach if the shit were to hit the fan. I dropped my half finished cigarette and crushed it with my boot. It made me wonder how many things I had crushed with my boot over the 21 years I had worked for the Syndicate. Too much, undoubtedly.
I gave the enforcer the go-ahead. He kicked the door with his boot, the wood around the hinges shattered and the door went down. Ironically, he hadn't even checked if the door was locked or not. It probably wasn't, but that all mattered so little now as the proprietor would soon no longer care. As the door kicked up dust, I saw the farmer dart by, running for the back door. Fear had given him wings, as he raced to escape. But opening the door revealed only pain, instead of freedom and safety. Another of my enforcers had patiently waited there and greeted the fleeing farmer with the butt of his shotgun. Teeth flew across the room, the poor man was knocked back into the wall & sacked down against it like a sack of potatoes.
"You ought to know better than that, Mr Ramirez." I said and affirmed, "There is no escaping the Syndicate."
The man mumbled an answer, but I couldn't make it out. Either the man had trouble speaking with his damaged mouth, or he had understood that nothing he could say would change anything and simply wanted to lament the situation instead. He squirmed a little, so I put my dusty black boot on his chest and pushed down, pinning him to the wooden floorboards.
"We are tired of your excuses, Mr Ramirez, and I do believe you have received ample warning." I said, as I watched his malformed hands. Both hands had had their pinkies amputated. My doing. I'm told others often resort to breaking bones, as a warning. However, I do not see the use. A farmer can't farm with a broken leg or arm. Since I wanted him to be able to work, I amputated pinkies. They were superfluous anyway. If cauterized properly, the person wouldn't experience too much of a discomfort in future work, but would forever be reminded of his unpaid debt.
"We have reached the end, Mr Ramirez, and you know what that means." I spoke.
The man started to mumble again. I think he was praying now. That was good, he would need to make peace with his maker. I waited for a moment and then stretched out my hand towards the enforcer standing at my shoulder. Without a single word he unholstered his .357 revolver and handed it to me.
"May you find a peace in death, that you couldn't find in life." I said as the hammer struck the bullet.
I then turned to the bed where the other enforcer had sat down two other persons, the farmer's two sons. The eldest was eighteen. He was a huge muscular man, but his face easily betrayed that has was retarded. If my information was correct, he should be about as smart as a nine year old. His younger brother was fourteen. He had been forced to grow up fast. He was a nimble & streetwise kid. There was hope for him yet, even if he was now pretty much alone. His mother had died giving birth to a daughter. The daughter in turn died of the flu at the age of eight.
As I approached the bed, the youngest kid darted to the corner of the room, reaching for a makeshift spring gun. It was the poor man's self-defence weapon. A tube, a grip, a high tension spring & a projectile. Simple, but deadly. The finely crafted ones could shoot a railroad spike all the way into a man's chest at 25 yards distance. Of course, even though the kid was agile and quick, he never reached the gun. He was met halfway by the boot of one of my enforcers, striking him square in the chest. It knocked the wind out of him and he landed back on the bed. His brother let out a whimper. I handed the revolver back to it's owner, grabbed a chair and sat down on it in front of to the bed.
"I'm sorry about your father, I truly am." I spoke once the younger boy had recovered and I actually meant it for once, "You now have a choice: Either you inherit the farm and your father's debts under the same conditions, or you give up the farm, the crops and the animals. In that case I’ll in turn forfeit the debts and I'll try to find you a job in the city. The choice is yours."
"You know as well as I do, that we stand no chance of ever paying those debts without loosing fingers and eventually our lives." The youngest boy answered with the undeniable tremble of anger in his voice.
"That is probably correct, but I am required to give you the chance, and the choice remains yours. You have one day to decide." I replied, "If you decide to keep the farm, come see me at the viaduct. If you decide against it, leave the farm. If you're in need of work, you can go see the foreman in the Ghetto. I'll tell him to give you a job and shelter for the time being. It is hard work and it doesn't pay well, but at least you and your brother will have a full stomach."
As I was about to leave, I grabbed a piece of cloth off the sink, probably something they used as a towel and wiped the farmer's blood of my right boot.
"I probably don't have to warn you not to steal anything. Crops, animals, tools. All need to be accounted for, or the Syndicate will hunt you down. You are, of course, free to take any personal effects." I said and stepped back into the burning sun.
It was now almost noon as we headed back to the city through the dusty and desolate wastes. After 30 minutes hard travel in the searing sun we reached the city. The city was on the fringe of civilisation as we liked to call it. It was the last real city before the radioactive dustbowl that was the Mid-West. An area plagued with radioactive tornadoes, horribly mutated raiders, cannibal tribes and odd beasts.
We entered through the Scav's gate, also known as the West Gate, one of the only two entrances to the city. The other side was the East Gate, the 'official' militia entrance near the Ghetto. Around the city there were fortifications made of dirt mounts, junk, pointy sticks, razor-sharp metal plates and booby traps. Mostly to keep raiders out, but also to keep us safe from other cities' militias. You never knew who might get it in his head to try and conquer some territory.
The Scavengers greeted us warmly. They were one of the few that didn't fear us. This might be because none of them were ever stupid enough to ask the Syndicate for loans or to cross us in any way. They mostly kept to themselves, but we often did business with them, trading rare technology, medical supplies, books or weapons they dug up out in the wastes and the many radiation zones at their own peril. They were a rough but honest bunch of scavengers, fortune finders, trappers and hunters hauled up in the old train yards. They had an own code, some sort of law all lived by. They even had a strange form of social security. The longer you stayed with the Scav's, the more they'd go out of their way to help you if you were in some kind of trouble. Old trappers that were lacking the strength and constitution to continue their trade were provided for, as long as they provided a service in return. May it be teaching the youngsters some tricks, crafting traps, skinning, tanning, cooking dinner or all of the above.
We followed the train tracks and the power cables along the west side of the City, until we reached the viaduct. Some sections had fallen a long time ago during the war, but most still stood high above the ground. Under one of the sections that were still standing was my home, an old Civil Defence shelter. I never quite understood why anyone would build such a small shelter in a viaduct, but I must admit there are many things about the old days that I didn't quite understand. The shelter was composed of two rooms. A heavy metal door, more a bulkhead than an actual door, lead to the front room, which was my office and for some part a shop of sorts. The big back room was my bedroom and storeroom. The back room had a secondary exit through a manhole on the viaduct, but I had booby trapped it a long time ago. The entire area around that section of the viaduct was marked with burning barrels with the shape of a hand cut out of them, to make sure no one would make the mistake of wandering in by accident if he had no business there.
Across from the shelter were the enforcer's barracks and a pillbox manned by a guard armed with a squad support weapon around the clock. The enforcers were either ex-militia or reformed raiders. Either way, they were considered the toughest soldiers in town. The barracks were build with a mix of stones, clay and wooden beams to support the roof. I always thought that Max, the chief enforcer, had done a very good job designing it. If someone were to be able to somehow get past the front guard and throw a grenade into the barracks, the grenade would do little damage, as there was another wall separating the entrance from the sleeping quarters. Next to the barracks, there was a group of benches and chairs around a campfire. The viaduct protected it from the sun for most of the day and even kept the acid rain at bay. Only sandstorms could wreck havoc on occasion. Each of the twelve enforcers could often be found lounging there, whenever not on duty. It was that or hitting the bars & brothels, which believe it of not eventually grew pretty old.
As we stepped into the shade of the viaduct, Max met us to tell us Mom's delivery boy had just brought us the dinner she had cooked for us, as she did each day. He asked me if he should bring my share to the office, but I told him I would eat outside with the enforcers. There was little wind today, so not too much sand and dirt would be blown into the food around the campfire. Most enforcers drank some vile soda pop called Nuka Cola, as I drank water. Nuka Cola was a disgusting chemical drink I had never grown to appreciate. Imagine some gasoline mixed with bubbling water and ground coffee beans. The enforcers that were off duty drank beer or liquor, courtesy of the Syndicate.
When we were done, I told Max to send word to the foreman to expect two new workers and to send someone to Ramirez's farm to maintain it for the time being. I also told him I was going to take a nap until someone showed up with business and that he was expected to wake me up when that happened.
A heavy knock on the metal door woke me up.
"The Butcher is here to see you, Mr Black." Max's voice said through the thick door. I opened it and let the leader of the Bowery gang in. As usual, he was wearing his 'uniform': bright red shirt, black trousers, black leather boots with a small manly heel and a black vest. His oil-slicked hair shone in the sun, as did the butcher knife hanging from his belt. He was one of the few thugs that had lived long enough to see his hair starting to turn grey, even though he was only 5 years older than I was.
"What can I do for you today, Bill?" I asked as I sat down in my comfortable chair and waved him to do the same on one of the chairs in front of my desk.
"Guns, lotsa guns. Preferably assault rifles and machine guns." He answered with a disgusting grin on his face.
"And why would you need that, my friend?" I asked.
"The spicks! They're encroaching on our territory, and they have superior numbers... Thank god, they aren't well armed." He replied.
"Well, you know the score. I can only sell revolvers, automatic pistols, shotguns, 'civilian' TEK-9's and grenades to gangs. Only city militias are allowed to buy AR's and other big guns." I answered coldly.
"Can't you at least cut us a deal on militia TEK-9's?" He asked.
"I can sell you the militia 30-round clips, instead of the civilian 20-round ones, but I will not supply you with the militia TEK-9's that have full automatic fire. Besides, your men are probably better off with the 3-round burst civi model anyway. They'd simply spray the militia ones empty on the first guy they see, leaving them reloading while they get swarmed by the bloody spicks..." I pleaded.
The TEK-9 was one of the many Syndicate success stories. It was a small 9mm submachine gun. Simple, rugged and effective. It's design was stolen from a cheapass gun from way before the bombs fell, but the Syndicate had brought it back and redesigned it. The original defects were worked out, such as often misaligned sights and the gun was mass produced in two versions. Due to the materials used to craft it, it was heavier than the original since we lacked composites, but that helped to keep the recoil a little more controllable. It was a cheap gun suited both for civilian self-defence and militia forces. Of course, if the people knew it's actual production cost, they'd shit a brick. We were selling them for 5 times their cost.
It is also rather funny that an organisation that was into loan sharking, arms manufacturing, gunrunning, liquor production and various other trades, would have strict rules regarding the sale of guns. But the reason was pretty obvious. The Syndicate was everywhere. No matter what faction a city belonged to, the Syndicate was there. No matter who ruled a city, the Syndicate had him in their pocket. The Syndicate was an octopus, with tentacles in each power structure. The Syndicate had even gone as far as to print it's own money, from an old Dollar press with changed print. This money was accepted everywhere and even often preferred over official city or region currency. And as such, the Syndicate needed stability, just as much as the people that ran the city. Stability means prospering, prospering means money. They can't allow some nitwit gang to buy big guns and overthrow the power structure. On the other hand, the Syndicate did encourage gangs to fight each other, since those small scale wars are good for business.
"If you aren't happy with our selection, you can always try the gun shop in the Ghetto. Either way, I'll have a new case of civi models in by the end of the week. That's 20 guns in 3 days. And I'll throw in one militia model for your personal use, if you keep it between us, Bill." I added, knowing full well that the gun shop in the Ghetto wouldn't sell them anything but pistols, shotguns and semi-automatic hunting rifles.
"Alright, we'll talk again by the end of the week." he answered.
As I saw the man known as The Butcher our, I noticed a farmer sitting outside on the bench next to my front door.
I nodded at Max who was tinkering with the sights on his assault rifle and he told me the farmer had been there for hours, way before The Butcher had arrived, but the farmer didn't want Max to wake me up. I sighed and told the farmer to come in. The farmer took off his hat and looked around my office, as if he was looking at a cave full of treasure. Various open green wood gun crates, with guns on display. A big leather armchair. An oak desk. A liquor cabinet with all the finest liquors to be found in the wastes. Behind me, even a working radio set and computer. Or at least, it would work if I fired up the alcohol fuelled generator in the back. The farmer's awe was understandable, the contents of one of my cigar cases was probably worth more than his entire livestock, including his wife and children.
"Speak." I said impatiently.
"Mr Black, I - I - I'm Jones from the farm out to the south-west and I'm here to request a loan." He replied.
"You are aware of our rates & the penalties for not paying what's due? Mr Ramirez had to find out the hard way today." I asked. The way he was clenching his hat in his hands, made me wonder if I were to pity him or hate him for being a spineless bastard. "Ye - Yes, sir. But I need it to buy a new bull. My current one is a magnificent bull, sir, but he seems to be sterile. I cannot breed any more without a new bull and buying a new bull without a loan would cost me all my brahmin...I can't even hire one from a fellow farmer without significant losses." He sighed.
"Alright." I said as I reached in a drawer of my desk, took out a bundle of money and started peeling off a few bills. As I looked up again, I thought his eyes were going to pop. The poor man had probably never seen so much money in his entire life.
"Off you go." I said as I put the bundle back & wrote down the transaction in the ledger while the man beat a hasty retreat, thanking me until I was out of sight and even thanking Max as he crossed him.
I grabbed my black leather trench coat, turned off the alcohol fuelled lamp on my desk and locked up the shelter behind me. Max nodded as I left to head into town alone. I needed no protection in the city. No one was stupid enough to try to rob or even kill a representative of the Syndicate here, let alone a Regent. A simple glimpse of the red tattoo of a hand on the back of my right hand would be enough to scare the living daylights out of most people. The mere thought of a dead Regent in their neighbourhood was enough to make an entire city block of people dislocate. The Syndicate knew no mercy and no peace when hunting down people who had offended them, stolen from them, or killed on of them. The guilty party would be found, even if they had to burn down the whole world in the process.
The sun was already setting as I stepped into the slums. I crossed a group of children who were using a dog to hunt a rather big and mean looking rat across the streets. When the rat had gained sufficient distance between the pursuing boys, he stopped in his tracks, turned around and in a flash bit the dog in the throat. By the time the boys caught up, the dog was bleeding to death and the rat was long gone. I couldn't help, but laugh. Across the road sat a girl with dirt all over her face. She eyed me as she was nursing a baby on her street corner. She couldn't have been more than 14 years old. I turned into an alley, a shortcut. There were two persons lying on the ground. As I passed, one of them grabbed my coat and begged for some money. I instinctively kicked him, he recoiled and his bottle shattered on the pavement. The drunk started to lament the loss of his booze, while the other person -or was it a thing?- begged to forgive her husband, he hadn't recognised me she said. I left them lying in their own dirt and continued on my way.
I soon crossed over into the Bowery, an area held by the Bowery Boys for decades now. Their stronghold was a building called Bowery Savings Bank. Of course, it no longer fulfilled that purpose. Someone who must've read the famous book, had used the name of the bank to adopt an old New York gang's name. Since then, all gang leaders that had headed the gang were renamed Bill The Butcher the moment they came into power. The name wasn't just the name of the old New York gang's boss, it was also a hint at how he came to power. Any member of the gang had the right to challenge the leader into a melee fight with huge butcher knives. The victor was named gang leader. They were a very violent gang, but mostly harmless as long as they had an enemy to focus on. The spicks were that enemy. Other than fighting, doing violent odd-jobs and brewing awful moonshine, they didn't do much except trying to look cool in their uniforms.
At the border between the Bowery and the Barrio, was the biggest brothel in town, run by a fat black lady named Madam Lil'. She catered to both side, but didn't allow any tomfoolery inside her brothel. Anyone starting a fight, would be not only banned for life, but also extremely lucky to get out alive.
East of the brothel stretched the Barrio, which was spick country. The spicks weren't all that bad. They mostly wanted to make a living and survive. They far outnumbered the Bowery Boys, but were far less interested in gang wars. They were relatively calm until the Bowery Boys pushed them a little too hard and then they would have no choice but to push back. Many tried to make an honest living with doing the dirty work for the people in the Ghetto. Some did some caravan protection work. Others were forced into criminality or prostitution.
Just a little further lay the Ghetto. The Ghetto was the inner-city. It had a reinforced wall made of concrete, wood and metal plates to protect it. The walls were guarded by a few militia. The inner-gate was a passage about a lane and a half wide and about 35 yards long. At the end of it was a heap of sandbags with a .50 cal machine gun behind it. Anyone trying to storm the Ghetto would have to go through that bottleneck and face the judgement of the .50 cal.
Most of the structures within the Ghetto were apartment buildings of which the top floors had crumbled and collapsed. Many had no more than two or three intact and safe floors, while many others had collapsed completely. Just to the left of the entrance lay Ol' Man Carter's convenience store with next to it Doc Painless' practise and drugstore. To the right of the entrance was a small hotel, that mostly provided a place to stay for caravans and the odd traveller that did have some cash to his name. Attached to the hotel was a bathhouse, which was where I was headed now. While prostitution wasn't allowed in the Ghetto, the girls at the bathhouse did offer services going well beyond washing up and a massage. The law condoned it for some reason. However, that was not what I was there for, I simply needed a cleanup. Maybe not only from the dirt, but from the blood that stuck to me. However, that would never wash off...
Refreshed from my bath, I continued down the road to the repair shop, which was run by two women. Samantha, the resident techhead, that often fixed broken technology that the Scav's brought back to me and Laura, the mechanic, that was currently working on a alcohol fuelled dirt bike for me. The girls were the stuff wet dreams were made off. No finer body had ever filled a workers overall than Laura's and Samantha was a particularly cute looking redhead. Of course, no man in town had ever conquered that territory, except one. The girls were lesbians, which only added to the attraction I presume. It was always funny to see the older men of the city linger a bit outside the workshop, in the hope of catching a glimpse of either one. Or even a glimpse of seeing them kiss! However, they wanted a child, for which they needed a man, at least for a very short period of time. The man they chose had turned the entire town upside down. They had chosen the Doc's help. He wasn't a good looking man, nor a strong one. He was a thin young man with glasses. However, he was pretty damn smart and in many ways more skilful than the Doc himself. The young man had often been teased and bullied by the other locals, but that soon came to an end after the word was out on the baby boy he had conceived with the lesbian couple...
Laura greeted me as I entered the workshop and updated me on her progress. Samantha seemed to be focused on tinkering with a holodisk reader. Laura was then called away by the whaling baby in the corner of the shop. For some reason the baby seemed to instinctively dislike me. Was it the smell of blood money that stuck to me like a fly on brahmin shit? I don't know, but I couldn't entirely blame the baby as most of the time I didn’t like myself much either. I quickly took my leave and crossed the road to enter Mom's Diner, stuck in between the smithy and the gun shop.
The smithy was run by twin brothers. One had become a skilled smith, the other a gunsmith. They were quite good at what they did and completed each other to a scary extend. They went as far as finishing each other’s sentences. The rumour had it, that they switched between their wives on regular occasion.
I entered Mom's Diner and even before I sat down, she was already coming to bring me my meal. When I complemented her once again on a decent meal, she placed a sloppy wet kiss on my forehead and went back to her duties. While she wasn't my mom, she had become the next best thing over the years.
To the back of Mom's Diner was a subway station. The subway network and the sewers were ghoul territory, even right in the middle of the Ghetto, the ghouls only had to answer to their own leader, not the Mayor, not the Sheriff. Ghouls were quite interesting, if you could get yourself to ignore the putrid smell. It was said that some ghouls had been alive since the War. It was true ghouls held huge amounts of old knowledge, but I doubt any had been alive since the War. My hypothesis was that too survive, they had had to adapt and learn to pass knowledge on to each other as efficiently as possible. Even when you asked a ghoul straight out, he'd tell you one thing, while the next ghoul you'd ask would tell you the other. Either way, many ghouls were proficient in old technology and had also proven very efficient in digging up dirt and information. There wasn't much going on in town that the ghouls didn't have the scoop on. Ghouls were overall good people, but had a somewhat paranoid bend.
I slowly continued down the road, past the building where my daughter lives. She had turned sixteen last month and I had given her the apartment as a birthday gift. Not that that meant a lot, she hadn't lived with me since she had turned twelve. She had been raised by Mom more than by me ever since her real mother had died by my own hand. She was six when it happened and had only now, at sixteen started to forgive me. I, however, could still not forgive myself. To kill the women you love and mother of your child in front of that very child is unforgivable. There is no day that goes past where I don't curse her for forcing me to do it. She knew the laws of the Syndicate as well as I did and she had willingly violated them, but there still isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret my choice. It was since then, now over 10 years ago, that I've moved out of the inner-city and lived as a self-imposed exile at 'my' viaduct.
Next to the apartment building was the Mayor's house. In front of it was his car. It was an actual microfusion fuelled car, not one of the slightly more common alcohol powered ones. Of course, as most car owners, he almost never drove it. It simply costed too much, even for the Mayor who owned a share in most stores in the Ghetto and owned the Casino. It is there that I crossed the Sheriff. She was a stern looking woman. As tough as the reinforced leather armour she wore and as deadly as the combat shotgun she carried. I think she disliked me, but I never could be sure as she wasn't very talkative to anyone at all. I was told she had a fling with Max, but I cannot be sure. Even though I considered him one of my closest friends, he never told me anything about it and I never asked. I do have to admit, they aren't such an odd match after all.
It must've been almost midnight by the time I reached the bar. The bar was an old catholic church. It was big, nice and cosy. The organ still worked even though the biggest pipes had been dismantled decades ago to make brass for bullets together with the church bells. Most wooden art had either been sold, or burned together with the original church benches. Most of the beautiful glass windows were intact however, which was pretty much a miracle as far as I was concerned.
The bar was owned by what I guess you could call my girlfriend, Beth, although it was kind of complicated. I really liked her, but it was really nowhere near what I felt for my deceased wife. Beth was 30 years old, which is about 5 years younger than I was and she had everything I looked for in a woman. She was smart, entertaining, and very driven when it came to business, not to mention a good looking brunette. In essence, she didn't 'need' me like most girls in this town, but she wanted me anyway. A nice coincidence was, that my daughter Sarah was on very good terms with her and liked her a lot. She even worked there as a waitress, although if she chose to, she would never have had to work in her entire life.
While her being a waitress didn't sit very well with me, I counted my blessings. At least she didn't booze, do drugs or hang out with trash, which was what most girls of her age seemed to do. Sure, as a sixteen year old waitress she'd come into contact with scum anyway, but Beth didn't take any bullshit in her bar and neither did her bouncers. Not to mention everyone knew she was my daughter, which should have been deterrence enough...
As I climbed the stairs to the heavy oak doors, I noticed bloodstains all over the marble steps. I cursed myself for not noticing that the bouncer wasn't standing at his usual post by the door and quietly snuck towards the entrance. As I slowly opened the door, I reached behind my back to my belt, for my Laser Watts pistol that no one except my enforcers knew I carried. It was mostly clever subterfuge that led people to believe I was unarmed at all times. I also instinctively felt my chest, to make sure I was wearing my kevlar vest under my shirt and coat. As I peaked into the bar however, I saw I was too late for the party. Some tables had been turned over and glass was spread over the floor, but these were but mere relics of a bar fight that had ended some time ago.
I relaxed and let go of my pistol as I saw Sarah and Beth cleaning up the mess. Undoubtedly Beth sent the bouncer home after breaking up the fight and taking some punches. The bar was nearly empty, only the two girls, the band, a barman and a guy that was hanging at the bar. The man had clearly taken a few blows. Just as I was going to step out of the shadow, the band started playing. Rather than disturbing them, I leaned against the wall and listened.
The drums, guitar and the organ set in, the singer lit a cigarette, and then started to sing.
"Take a little walk to the edge of town, go across the tracks.
Where the viaduct looms, like a bird of doom, as it shifts and cracks.
Where secrets lie in the border fires, in the humming wires.
Hey man, you know you're never coming back.
Past the square, past the bridge, past the mills, past the stacks.
On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man,
in a dusty black coat with a Red Right Hand."
"He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy.
He'll rekindle all the dreams, it took you a lifetime to destroy.
He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul.
But there won’t be a single thing that you can do.
He's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru.
They're whispering his name through this disappearing land,
but hidden in his coat is a Red Right Hand."
"You don't have no money? He'll get you some.
You don't have no car? He'll get you one.
You don't have no self-respect, you feel like an insect.
Well don't you worry buddy, cause here he comes.
Through the Ghetto and the Barrio and the Bowery and the slums.
A shadow is cast wherever he stands,
stacks of green paper in his Red Right Hand."
“You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams.
He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems.
You'll see him in your head, on the TV screen.
And hey buddy, I'm warning you to turn it off!
He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru.
You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan,
designed and directed by his Red Right Hand.”
As the song ended and the singer crushed his cigarette, I emerged from the shadow and clapped slowly, but firmly. As soon as they recognised the blonde haired man in dusty black trench coat, black pants & black shirt, their skin whitened and their eyes widened in fear. I could actually see the hair on the back of their necks stand up straight. When I climbed the stage, and reached for a guitar, the band members collectively cringed. I laughed -did they actually believe I'd bash in their skulls with a guitar over a nice song?- and sat down on a pew.
I started playing, cleared my throat and sung.
"No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes."
"No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies."
"But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be."
"I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free."
"No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you!"
"No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through."
"But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be."
"I have hours only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free."
"When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool.
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool."
"And if I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat.
And if I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat."
"No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes."
I stood up and placed the guitar against the pew, as Beth and Sarah applauded. The band joined them, but I couldn’t make out if they were being sincere or not. I grabbed my girlfriend and my daughter, and we walked out into the cool night air laughing like little kids.
